Wedges Creek Ice Caves

Snowshoeing cures the cold. That biting cheek and nose burning cold doubled down by even the faintest breeze. The day wasn't a wind that just rattles the remaining oak leaves of late winter, but rather one that needed to be respected and prepared for. Wind chills generally seem overblown by TV forecasters and playground supervisors. “Freezing skin in five seconds” and all that hyperbole-just dress right has always been my thought.

Cross country skiing and fatbiking tend to fill my winter schedule, but when the really cold drops in for a visit, I pull out the snowshoes. Moving slower and working hard through deep snow warm the body quickly-if anything, overdressing is a problem. A wicking layer and a shell to cut that wind is usually adequate to keep one comfortable in very minus zero temps. Add a thin layer for every sub 10 degrees and you're set.

It's now March and winter is quickly waining with 40s expected next week. The season wasn't quite done yet and would hit us with a couple more days of just single digits. Fresh snow had fallen and I had the urge to explore a new area by snowshoe and see what other living things had been up to.

Wedges Creek in south west Clark County meanders for about 20 miles before emptying into the Black River south west of Neillsville. It's nearby and I've managed to canoe and fatbike and snowshoe different stretches of it from time to time. Lately, with the cold temps sticking around, the lab and I tackled a few yet undiscovered sections-unknown to us anyway.

Wedges flows with tannin stained water, and moves constantly even in the harshest winters. Caution is the word of the day and snow covered ice hides all too thin spots, which from time to time the dog and my 'shoes exposed. After a while, one can read the surface of the creek- a slight bow or rise in the ice means it's hollow underneath and water has eroded the strength of the frozen sheet. Plunk! A foot would break through-both mine and Mollys when we didn't decipher the sign correctly. It's more an inconvenience than anything, ice instantly freezing to the webbing in the snowshoe weighing it down. We're not in danger, for the water is shallow and the truck not too far distant. A walking stick probing suspicious spots usually sounds the alarm when the tone of the ice changes. We learned quickly.

The “creek,” actually a small river at this midpoint, has carved some beautiful sandstone formations which reach high above the opposite flood plain. Each curve in its course usually leaves a tall rocky bank on one side and a low sandy snow covered beach on the other. Higher water earlier this winter left foot thick “ice sheets” cracked and strewn at crazy angles on the shore. The cliff sides sprout ice formations, similar to their famous cousins in the Apostle Islands to the far north. Not exactly “ice caves” but there are places with frozen formations not only clinging to fissures in the rock, but also clutching the “ceilings” of undercuts along the shore. Gold stained colors flow still-frozen in the ice and coloring the deposits unexpectedly in this white winter world.

Care is taken as we approach each outcropping for usually the gurgling flow of the stream beneath is loudest on these banks. The dog seems to sense this and is wary for she's been in the drink more times than I. Water working its way from deep within the sandstone expands when solid and at times breaks the fragile surface, crumbling it below. The hues are wonderful-especially contrasted with the snow and the somehow surviving microscopic plant life-tiny green ferns with a foothold on sliver ledges here and there.

We work on way downstream late in the day, finding no new animal sign, just faded tracks wandering from bank to bank. Although the days are noticeably longer, the sun is low now casting even warmer tones on the shoreline and long shadows on the white blanket we tread. Time to climb up and out of this minor canyon in the county forest. Sapling oaks offer handholds and the snowshoe cleats dig deeply up the steep hillside. Soon a small deer trail we're ascending delivers us to the top. From this vantage point the amber sunset fills the creek bed below painting a soft tepid glow on the rock faces. This is a good place to be and I don't notice the cold-forgotten completely while traversing the solid river below. The wind and sun are soon to be at our back, helping guide us thru thick slashings to the pickup a mile or so away. We'd be out before the colors in the western sky fade and would watch over the other shoulder the full moon rising. A moment was taken to look both ways before unstrapping the 'shoes and gesturing the lab into the truck. Yes, snowshoeing has tamed the cold.

Fall Rides

Lyle on Sidewinder

“I was drinking in the surroundings: air so crisp you could snap it with your fingers and greens in every lush shade imaginable offset by autumnal flashes of red and yellow.” Wendy Delsol

Fall is without a doubt the best time of year to ride. Spring is buggy, muddy and has a chill that I can never warm up to. Summer sticks with the bugs but replaces the cold with sweltering air you can barely breathe. Winter? Well, there is nothing really wrong with pedaling in snow, but it still doesn't quite hold up to Autumn. 

In my racing days, fall signaled the end of the riding year, rolling in the final races of the season, concluding with the Chequamegon 40-the Christmas and New Years of the fat tire world. The workout season is over and it's time to “just ride.” That philosophy of non-training now carries me throughout the year and I can pedal to no strict regiment or because I have to. Okay, not quite true, I do “have to” ride in the fall. As Delsol writes, I so look forward to “drinking in the surroundings,” many times franticly not knowing what to do or where to go first. There are so many things pulling me in different directions, if only October were twelve weeks long. The black lab prances after work, convinced we'll be toting a shotgun chasing birds, the backpack waits to be slung on a shoulder and a tree stand impatiently expects my return. There are leaves to shuffle under foot as well and wildlife to photograph. But the mountain bike leaning in the corner is most anxious because I am. Those knobbie tires need to run over the carpet of yellow, orange and red in the woods, not always quite sure were the trail lies hidden beneath.

Yellow Carpet Ride

Eventually, each fall pursuit will get it's share of my time, but never enough and I feel the same way. Luckily for me, others concur and my bike is more than willing to share some singletrack with company. Biker friends from Madison arrived at their favorite trail (and mine) on what could only be described as a perfect autumn weekend. Trees in full color, that “crisp” air surrounding us and the scent in the breeze that only waifs by when leaves tumble to the earth. 

Like myself, Lyle, Kelsey and Kat had no interest in a discipled ride of heart rates and average miles per hour. We were turning pedals and rolling tires to just soak this season in at whatever pace necessary not to miss it. Favorite routes like Sidewinder and Wolf Run (at Levis Mound) were revisited, this time with so much more color and snap. Riding some in reverse of usual added a new dimension, nearly like discovering a brand new trail. Other mountain bikers had similar ideas and it was nice to meet here and there along the trail. “Remember this,” I thought to myself, as the bike carved corners and scattered popple and oak leaves behind. This season would soon be gone and homage must be paid by stopping frequently, taking a few pictures and breathing it all in. 

Kelsey & Kat & Yellowjacket

Days like these pass quickly and too soon the bikes roll to a stop at the trailhead leaving me to wonder how much I missed out there. There is always more to take in. While my friends refueled and readied for another ride, the other fall interests tugged me away from taking another spin...reluctantly. More hours in a day? More days in this month? I can only dream, dream of just one more ride in this perfect time of year.

Sidewinder in Fall

Wild Ride

The Sweaty Yeti

Bear Den Downhill

THE SWEATY YETI

CA·MA·RA·DE·RIE-NOUN COMRADESHIP; GOOD-FELLOWSHIP.

Origin: 1830–40;  < French,  equivalent to camarade comrade

Synonyms :conviviality, bonhomie, brotherhood.

Sounds legit. And that's the feeling I walk away with after spending a couple days with some of the best people in the world. This past weekend brought the third addition of the Sweaty Yeti fatbike race back to the Levis Mound Trail in south western Clark County. As race director, there is no end to the fretting about having everything ready for a race. This year was no different. Another blast of the polar vortex dropped temps and unappreciated snow on the event the evening before, which just added to the scramble. But, as it all turned out, the worry was for naught. Everyone was happy with the race, the course and the turnout.

The explosion of fatbikes this year was evident just in looking at the starting line. The inaugural event saw just two brands of bikes toeing the line-this year, pushing a dozen, with even the big boys Trek and Specialized in attendance (they finally got the memo that fatbikes are not a fad). The race calendar is full every weekend and the Wisconsin Fatbike Race Series steadily growing with the 'Yeti a participating member.

What was born out of borrowed bikes and last minute rider drafts for teams (and a whole lotta fun), has matured some, with solo riders joining the teams out on course and nearly everyone arriving with their own steed. There is something to be said for keeping a race simple and fun and hopefully the Sweaty Yeti represents that. Times are less important that lap counts (keeps scoring easy) and it's not unheard of for racers to enjoy a beverage between laps. Hydration is important.

For the locals who build and maintain these trails and developed specialized grooming equipment for the snow course, the race is a chance to show off their work. Each lap incorporates some ski trail to maneuver and plenty of singletrack to climb and descend on. The new snow did soften things up some, but the one section of hike-a-bike was well rewarded with a long swoopy downhill. Hopefully riders will come back and explore the much longer loops within the trail system.

The race attracts riders from across the midwest and is a reunion of sorts (for me anyway). Biker friends I may see just at the 'Yeti or fun festivals like Gnomefest seem to gather and pick up those friendship right where they left off. I appreciate that. It is a brotherhood (and sisterhood) of sorts-like minded people who aren't afraid to get dirty, frosty, go fast or slow, and who enjoy the ride- not taking life too seriously. Fatbiking is the ultimate bike ride and as some say, you come back with that “fatbike grin” after every ride. There were a lot of those grins at the Sweaty Yeti-the ultimate payback for hosting our event and why we keep love what we do. See y'all next year!

#1!

Hells Yeah!

Covergirl Tenley

Upper Glen

Jackrabbit Draw

Bear Den

BRRRAP!

SnowBench

Swoopy

Yeti?

Yeti Carnage

Scotty Too Hotty

Faces of the Parade

Homecoming-lots of controversy of one kind or another this year-the merits or not of toilet papering, powder puff football and of course dress up days in school-are they educational?  Are we following PBIS, RTI etc?  ;)  I love that at the very least the homecoming parade skirted rain and still marched down 4th street like usual.  It's a "target rich environment" as photographers say and since I know all the kids lined up at the edge of the curb, it's even more fun to get some portraits.  The younger kids are more fun-they are still full of enthusieasm whereas the older kids see it as a half our out of class-even if it is robbing them of some Friday afternoon instructional time.  Maybe that's why they don't smile as much?  Well, either way, here are the Faces of the parade.

Snow Shadows

Treeline on the Reed Farm

This winter has been long.  And I love winter. I love the snow, the crispness on my face, the cleanness of the white, the quiet of the season. As Ruth Stout put it:
There is a privacy about it which no other season gives you.... In spring, summer and fall people sort of have an open season on each other; only in the winter, in the country, can you have longer, quiet stretches when you can savor belonging to yourself.  

But  this year winter has hung on, digging it's claws into the change of season and not letting go.  I've never quite seen a drawn out winter like this-consistent snow and temperatures, not the usual warm up melt, then snow and well.... repeat.  Last year I was riding motorcycles and bikes on dirt and about to mow the lawn.  Nature will have it's way and this year winter has endured.

It's not all bad, this extra taste of snow and cold.   March brings longer days, starting very early, and for me, an opportunity to reengage my photography eyes. Looking back over the years, there always seems to be that one day during the season changeover, when my camera is out, snowshoes on and a dog along, shooting images of shadows on white.  It seems that that one day is a day I can "see" pictures.  Maybe just in my eye and maybe no one else will care or like them, but they are shot for me at that moment.  I think Stout expressed so well some of the things I feel when quietly making my way across snow covered fields and threading between dark tree trunks on the woods.  They are all "quiet stretches" to savor.  

I have a thousand pictures of Queen Annes Lace from all seasons-it's everywhere in my part of the world.  In the cold of winter, it's stands silent and delicate and in the dawn of the day casts threads of shadows on the sparkling snow.  I have yet to tire of making those pictures of them. An unimpressive treeline, grounded in fieldstone, now becomes a better subject with layers of grey hills backing it up and limbs of black branches holding still.

A day of enduring wind created acres of farm field drifts and a mosaic of patterns. Almost overwhelming, I had to caution myself not to shoot a thousand frames of these forms.  The lab followed closely behind me struggling in the deep snow until reaching the firmness of the windblown pack.  The way the morning light played off the snow reminded me of water waves gently washing up to a smooth beach leaving behind very similar shapes in the sand.  Others, like waves about to crash, but now frozen still.  Tucked away at a quieter place at the edge of a frog pond, isolated tracks were evidence that life was still tucked in here. Nearby stems of a cattail seemed to be reaching up like fingers freeing themselves from the snow, casting long thin strands in a minimalist, almost zen quality.  At another time I might have walked past, but this day, there was something there-at least for myself.  Perhaps just a simple composition belonging to just me and like in the quote something to savor.

Queen Annes Lace

The Drift Breakline

Snow Waves

Delicate Footfalls

Strands in the Snow